


The Amazing Adventures of the Bayou Bashers

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Baseball RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From bachelor party to babies to piggybacks from grown men, the Bayou Bashers grow together.<br/>Sort of.  Well.not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Amazing Adventures of the Bayou Bashers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for cdeacon

 

 

Two weeks before Ryan was to be married, Fontenot planned a bachelor party with the usual elements: a rented "fun" bus, a keg of beer at the house, and drinks at a number of strip clubs.

At 3:00 a.m., they were stumbling back to the bus, loud and drunk, when they passed a tattoo parlor.

Fontenot stopped in his tracks, causing Theriot to run into him. "Hey, man, we should do that!"

Theriot laughed so hard he bumped into the side of the building. Or he bumped into the building because he'd done two shots of Goldschlager before close.

Either way, he nearly tipped over.

"Mikey, that's..." then said a word that was probably meant to be "hilarious" but came out something like "hibarneyfrrr."

"No, no, man, I mean it! Something like...I don't know, our LSU numbers linked together. Or whatever."

Theriot laughed harder. Then he puked.

Fontenot felt sad and dizzy. He had been mostly serious.

Then he puked too.

***

"Hey."

That was not Ryan's usual greeting. Lately, he'd taken to kicking Mike in the back of the knee by way of salutation, something you would think professional ballplayers wouldn't do anymore, what with knees being long-term investments.

Ryan was a dick like that.

"Hey?" Mike addressed the mirror rather than Ryan. He was making a run at a mustache-cum-goatee, and it wasn't progressing the way he'd like--which was to say that it wasn't progressing at all. He looked like someone had mixed weed killer in with his aftershave.

"Uh, listen. I was wondering. You aren't doing anything tonight, are you?"

Fontenot continued to brush at what he hoped was the most promising patch of peach fuzz. He sure as hell was doing something tonight: _Caddyshack_ was on the Golf Channel. But he hated to brag about such awesome plans to a married guy.

"Sorta. Why?"

"Well, Johnnah and I had plans to go out to dinner and a movie, and our sitter has some last-minute...something...I don't know, I wasn't really listening. Anyway, we were thinking maybe you wouldn't mind watching Houston for the night. He goes to bed pretty early. You know, he's two."

"Yeah, duh, numbnuts. I can count." But the shock of it made him put his comb down. "You want _me_ to watch your _kid?_ "

"Houston. Yeah."

"Dude, I told you I'm not going to..." then Fontenot sighed, to imply once again that Ryan letting his wife name a first-born son after a Texan city or her relatives or whatever was so incredibly stupid.

"Shut up, Mike. So will you do it?"

Then he kicked him in the back of the knee.

"Riot, you asshole, I _told_ you to knock that shit off." Then he punched Ryan in the side a few times.

Which meant "Yes, I'll watch your horribly named son."

***

"I can eat four Pudding Pops." Houston made this claim as soon as his parents were safely out of the house. Mike agreed to watch Houston while they took their new daughter in to get shots. Apparently, Houston freaked out around doctors and his babysitter was taking some exam, so...

Mike was decidedly unimpressed. I mean, so what? Yeah, the kid was three or almost four, but you'd think he would have developed some skills beyond eating frozen chocolate treats. Or bragging about how many frozen chocolate treats he could eat.

It was that name. Mike would swear to it.

"Yeah? Well, whoop-de-doo."

"What's hoopedoo?"

Mike sighed. Man, this hadn't gotten any better since this kid was two or whatever.

"I can eat four in two minutes." Houston said this while holding up five fingers.

Mike felt his eyebrows raise in spite of himself. Even if Houston meant five, that was still pretty amazing for a kid. Even an adult. "Really?"

Houston nodded enthusiastically.

"Bullsh...eep." Mike didn't want any phone calls about kids using bad language. He had had enough of that since the Christmas he said "dickhead" in front of his three-year-old niece.

"I'll race you."

Mike considered the situation. There were definite pros and cons to this idea.

Finally, he decided if the kid barfed, it wouldn't be any worse than a night out with Eyre, who was prone to projectiling a night's worth of MGD like a high-pressure firehose.

"All right. Where do they keep the Pudding Pops?"

It was Houston's turn to look disgusted with Mike. "In the feezer."

Heh heh. Kid couldn't even say "freezer" right. He was so going down...

Five and a half minutes later, as he lay on the couch clutching his stomach and a chocolate-smeared Houston Theriot grinned triumphantly, Mike had to admit he'd underestimated the little bastard.

Also, he was never going to eat another fucking Pudding Pop as long as he lived.

***

"What the hell was _that?_ "

"What?"

"That bunch of goofy bullshit you just did with Z!"

"I don't know. It kind of started like a handshake, and you know Z. It turned into something about God."

"Don't you think getting a piggyback from a grown man is kind of gay?"

"...I think you're kind of gay for saying that. And Z would kick your ass if he heard you."

"Seriously, Mike. The hammering thing _and_ the piggyback? It makes you look like you're about five years old."

"Are you saying I look _short?_ "

"Shut up, Font."

"I'm serious. Are you _implying_ that I'm the smallest member of this team?"

"Well, you have the smallest brain. That's for sure. Idiot."

"I mean it!" Fontenot yelled after a retreating Theriot. "Because if you're saying I'm short, then it's on! I'm _scrappy,_ Ryan Theriot! Do you hear me? _Scrappy!_ "

"What you yelling about, Little Man?" Z asked from across the locker room.

Mike thought a moment. "Theriot said we looked gay out there."

There was an ominous silence. Then the slam of a locker.

"Heh heh heh," Mike said to his reflection, which was finally, finally sporting a fine goatee.

***

The fish hadn't been biting all day. He was exhausted and sunburnt (he'd forgotten to put sunblock on but had been too embarrassed when Ryan's wife offered hers; what if is smelled like _girl_ stuff?).

Ryan leaned across the boat and punched him in the shoulder. Then knocked his sunglasses off.

It was one of the best days he ever had. 

 


End file.
